Chapter 13 The Anti-Hero
THE ANTI-HERO
EMERY
“No,” I say, counting down the seconds until I can leave this fucking office. “I feel great. Can we hurry this along, Dr. Yang? I need to drive to Manhattan soon.”
Dr. Yang tilts her head. “This is important, Miss Jones. I’m sure whatever is waiting for you in Manhattan can wait.
” She clears her throat, opening my file.
“Your red and white blood cell counts came back normal. Cholesterol looks good. The angiogram came back clean. Everything looks normal.” She glances up at me. “For now.”
“That’s good, right?”
“You took a pledge, Miss Jones,” Dr. Yang states, disappointment dripping from her Johns Hopkins educated voice. “No alcohol, no tobacco.”
I swallow. Shit. “I’m aware.”
“I can smell it on you, Miss Jones,” she states, shaking her head. “We talked about this.” She passes me a pamphlet for a smoking cessation program. “You’ve been given a gift. A gift thousands of people are waiting for, Miss Jones. It’s your job to take care of it. No more smoking.”
“I can’t smoke. I can’t drink. I can’t eat red meat or butter or fucking cake,” I grit, fisting the edge of the exam table. “I can’t do anything that brings me a tiny bit of joy.”
“You can live, Miss Jones,” Dr. Yang states. “And that’s more than the 3,500 people currently on the transplant list can say.” She softens her tone. “Is the Celexpro working?”
She thinks I’m ungrateful. She thinks I don’t understand how lucky I was to receive a new heart.
A healthy, young heart. This heart saved my life.
I would’ve died. A week later, I would’ve been dead.
Sometimes, I wish I were. Then maybe someone who saw life as a gift would be sitting here instead of me.
Maybe someone who smiled at babies, who danced in the rain, who was capable of feeling love and being loved, could be here instead of me.
“It gives me headaches,” I mumble, ashamed of myself.
“But is it working?” she asks. “How do you feel most days?”
“Detached,” I reply honestly. “Most days I feel detached.”
Dr. Yang scribbles on my chart. “Explain what you mean by detached.”
“Withdrawn, I suppose. Disinterested.” I shrug. “Like nothing matters.”
Dr. Yang frowns. “Have you had suicidal thoughts recently, Miss Jones?”
“Don’t worry,” I snort. “I have no plans to off myself, Dr. Yang. But if I do, I’ll be sure to call you first. I know how desperate you guys are for organ donors.”
Dr. Yang doesn’t laugh at my attempt to lighten the mood. “I think it would be a good idea to reconnect with Dr. Umb—”
“Absolutely not.” I hop off the table, readjusting my dress. “I don’t need a shrink.”
“It helped before—”
“Listen, Dr. Yang, while I appreciate your concern, I’m fine,” I state, grabbing my purse off the chair and flinging it over my shoulder. “Now, is there anything else we need to go over or am I free to leave?”
Dr. Yang sighs. “Are you taking the immunosuppressants?”
I blink at her. “No, I’m not Dr. Yang. I’d like my heart to reject and spend the rest of my twenties hooked to an LVAD waiting for another organ donor.”
“Miss Jones…”
“Yes, I’m taking the damn immunosuppressants,” I huff. “Jesus.”
“I’d like to schedule an echo for next month,” Dr. Yang says, closing my file. “My office will call you for an appointment.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter, heading to the door. “Have a good weekend, Dr. Yang.”
“No smoking!”
I flash the receptionist a flat smile as I exit the medical center and run through the rain toward my car.
It never ends. The testing. The check-ups. The monitoring. Twenty-eight years of being poked and prodded and treated like some lab rat. New treatment. New medicine. New doctor. Eat this. Take this. Drink this. Lay down. Sit up. This might sting. Lay still. Don’t move. Deep breath.
It’ll never end. This is my life. For the rest of my miserable fucking life, I’ll be a dancing monkey for the health care system.
But no, I can’t complain, because if I complain then I’m ungrateful, ungracious, and undeserving.
As if I chose this life. As if I decided to be born with a fucked up heart.
My heart’s been broken since I opened my eyes, and they’ve never been able to fix it. Not in the way that matters.
“Em!” Tom hollers from down the block as I unlock the Mercedes. “Emery!”
“Tom?” What is he doing here? Stalker 2.0. Should we be flattered or scared? I frown at him. “What are you doing here?”
“You never called me back,” he pants, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses on his pants. “Figured I’d catch you here.”
“I’m late to my class, Tom.” I know I should feel bad for avoiding him. A good girlfriend would want to talk to her boyfriend. But I’m not a good girlfriend. I’m barely a good person. “Can we talk tomorrow? My place? I’ll make lunch.”
Tom puts his glasses back on, frowning at the Mercedes. “What’s this?”
“A car,” I sigh. “You know, a four-wheeled road vehicle that is powered by an engine.”
“You got a new car?” he asks, sniffling as beads of rain pitter down. “When did you—”
“Get in.” I round the Mercedes, sliding into the driver’s seat as Tom sits beside me. The last thing I need is to catch a fucking cold and die when my immune system fails to fight it. Awe, look at you, suddenly wanting to live. I hand Tom a tissue. “Here. Your nose is running.”
“Thanks, I ran from the bus spot to meet you,” he says, quietly blowing his nose. He swallows. “Umm, so, a new car?”
“It’s a company vehicle.” I press the engine on and the car roars to life. I grin down at the luxury dashboard, hoping one day to take it to full speed. This baby can go up from zero to sixty in 3.1 seconds. See? Plenty of things to live for. “I’ll drop you off at your place.”
Tom blinks. “They gave you a Mercedes?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it,” I say, pulling an aggressive U-turn. Tom grabs the handle. “Seriously? The road’s empty, Tom.”
“It’s still dangerous,” he mutters, slumping his shoulders. He chews on his bottom lip, fiddling with his fingers. “Emery?” I glance over at him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m driving you home,” I reply, frowning. “Didn’t I say that?”
“No, I meant…” He sighs, shifting his weight toward me. “What are you doing? Why are you taking this job? I thought… I thought we were moving in together.”
Guilt rushes through my body. “I never said I’d move in with you, Tom. You came to that conclusion on your own.”
“I don’t get it, Em.” Tom's pained gaze flickers around my face. “We had a plan… And now? What are you doing?”
“I accepted a job offer, Thomas,” I say, tightly gripping the steering wheel. “People change jobs every day.”
“In Manhattan,” he grunts. “You took a job in Manhattan. I… I just don’t understand. You didn’t… You didn’t even ask me.”
I snap my head at him. “Ask you if it was okay? I need your permission to do things now?”
“No, you don’t need my permission, Emery, but I think it should’ve been a discussion, don’t you?
Manhattan is a big city, Em. You don’t know anyone there.
Your family is here. I’m here.” He reaches over, placing a concerned hand on my thigh.
“Did you tell your parents that you’re moving?
How do you think they’ll feel knowing that their only daughter is moving to a city where she doesn’t know anyone?
What if something were to happen to you, Em?
You’d have no friends there, no one to call, no one to come help you. ”
No one telling me what to do. Yet. I gaze out into the wet road. “Manhattan is only a couple hours away, Tom. It's not like I’m moving to the west coast. And I’m sure 911 works just the same in New York as it does in Connecticut.”
Tom’s jaw ticks. “And what about me, huh? What am I supposed to do? Only see you on weekends now? I wanted to move in together, Emery, and now I’m going to be seeing you less? Do you not see the problem here? This is regression not progression. Jesus, Emery!”
“You could always find a job in New York,” I offer. Did you really just fucking suggest that? “I’m sure there are tons of IT positions available.”
“So, I need to uproot my entire life because you woke up one day and decided you wanted to move? My friends live here. My parents live here. My house is here.” Tom raises his voice. Tom never raises his voice. “Jesus, you’re selfish.”
Me. Me. Me. I. I. I. Who’s really the selfish one? What a fucking prick. He’s not. He’s just upset. I bite my tongue. “It’s a CFO position, Tom. Was I supposed to turn it down?”
“Cavanaugh Industries only headhunts,” Tom says, bitterness permeating the car. “How did you even get this job?”
“I was headhunted,” I half lie. Or just hunted. “I mentioned what I do to Damon that day we bumped into him at the bookstore. He must’ve looked me up after.”
Tom snorts. “Right. Because Damon Cavanaugh doesn’t have better things to do than scour the internet for nobodies from Chesterfield.”
If only you knew.
“Now you’re just being rude,” I mutter, turning onto Tom’s street. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Tom.” I park outside his house, putting on the break. “What do you want me to say?”
“I’m sorry would be a start.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, wishing that the hurt expression on his face made me feel anything. It doesn’t. All I feel is a twinge of anger, which I refuse to let out. I’m the bad guy here. I know that. “Do you feel better now?”
He scowls at me. “No, Emery, I do not feel better.”
“Do you want me to say something else then?” I ask, checking the time. Crap, I’m going to be super fucking late now. “Tom?”
He shakes his head, looking at me with veiled disgust but it’s so blatant.
So clear. In this moment, he hates me. I’m ruining his plan.
His timeline. His vision for his future.
And I couldn’t care less. His hatred is justified.
Deserved. I’m the villain in his story. In his fantasy.
This is why I hate fiction. Someone’s always got to be the villain. A hero can’t exist without the villain.
“Do you love me?” Tom asks. I remain neutral. No reaction. The word means nothing to me. It triggers nothing in me. “Emery… Do you love me?”
“Do you want me to love you?” I ask, unsure of how to answer a question I don’t completely understand. “Is that what you want?”
“Jesus…” Tom grabs his saddle bag from in between his legs and aggressively opens the car door. “Have fun in Manhattan. Don’t call me.”
Did he just…
Hell fucking yea—
I’m late.
Heavy rain smashes against my windshield as I speed to Lux.
I’ll call him tomorrow. Invite him for dinner.
It’ll be fine. He’s just overreacting. People tend to overreact sometimes.
It’s normal. Or so I’ve heard. He needs time to cool off.
I can give him time. Or… No, he needs time.
Time heals everything. I can’t think about this now.
I don’t want to think about this now. I want to feel free.
Feel light. I want the entire world to disappear for five minutes. That’s all I want.
“I know. I’m late!” I exclaim, bursting through the backdoor of Lux. “Sorry!” I stop, breathing heavily as I look around the empty backroom. “Crystal? Ginger?”
“Oh good, you’re here!” Georgina appears from her office, grinning. “I was worried you weren’t coming.” She checks her watch. “Better change, hun. You’re up in five.”
I frown at the lack of bodies and music. “What’s going on? Where is everyone?”
“They got the night off,” Georgina says. “It’s only you.”
My frown deepens. “What?”
“Private party,” she explains. “They requested only one dancer. You.”
My gaze hardens. Are you fucking kidding me? “Who?”
Georgina presses her lips into a thin line, refusing to answer. I don’t need an answer. There’s only one person rich enough to buy out an entire fucking strip club on a Friday night. Dropping my bags on the floor, I march down the hall toward the stage and whip open the velour black curtains.
“You said you wanted to dance, Miss Jones.” The spotlight shines on Damon. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A sly smirk clips his villainous lips as he whispers, “So dance.”